


Transgression of Thought

by welzes



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 12:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16516427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welzes/pseuds/welzes
Summary: "To love and to be loved . . . the mere notion transcends anything we primals are capable of."Primals are built for one function, and it precludes Sandalphon's penchant for rumination.





	Transgression of Thought

You are a primal beast--a tool that was crafted to be used. Yet, what is your purpose?

The meaning of tool is clear in the minds of every primal. You are an apparatus, built to carry out a specific function that remains unclear to you even now.

When you first opened your eyes to this world, you knew nothing. All you knew was the ethereal being before you--your creator, who took you by hand after telling you your name while you whispered his with far less articulation and more inexperienced clumsiness: _Lucifer._

Lucifer has since educated you on all that you know about the world and the skies surrounding the lab. The only thing he hasn't taught you is why.

You are a primal beast--a tool. Your only desire is to be used. And if the Astrals who glance at you with a sneer won't, then it should be Lucifer, first and foremost as your creator, who puts you to use.

Yet he refuses.

The first time you dare to offer yourself, risking the likeness of conceit in doing so, he levels at you an indecipherable look. As he should, he leaves you without providing an answer and with the question of why you're still here. His silence is your punishment.

In every subsequent encounter, he continues to brush your query off. You only have a single question, and he, with his infinite wisdom, knows to withhold it from your unworthy grasp.

But you are a primal, whose existence is to serve. In your darkest moment, you can't help but to think traitorously that your very being has been rejected.

Your throat suddenly closes up, threatening to rob you of the air necessary to fuel your artificial cognition. A strange numbness washes over you as your vision blurs, and you start from the alarming feeling that arrests your body.

What is this feeling? You rub your eyes and wonder if you're perhaps in need of maintenance, despite not having done a single thing to warrant it.

Without naming names, you inquire as to the process the next time you meet Lucifer.

"While I can't be certain, what you describe must be the sadness that mortals exhibit in their greatest moment of vulnerability," he explains.

Sadness? But you are a primal, not a mortal who dwells in the perfect skies, of which Lucifer paints a marvelous picture. His explanation, while absolute in its clarity and indisputable in source, puzzles you. How could you have exhibited sadness?

A primal with self-awareness and the apparent capacity for sadness, yet the inability to serve its purpose: just what are you?

Your shoulders drop, slightly enough that the motion goes unnoticed by Lucifer. Your self-awareness should be used to facilitate your ability to function as a tool, rather than spent on mortal concepts that you have no business emulating. By misusing your cognition this way, you have slighted and lied to your benevolent creator.

After Lucifer takes his leave, your thoughts spiral. Perhaps this is why he declines to use you as you're meant to be: At some point, he'd seen your deviance and is rightfully hesitant on deploying you. This is a deep flaw that you must correct posthaste.

You steel yourself during Lucifer's absence. When he returns to the lab for his usual visit to his own maker, you approach--and fumble over your words once the thudding of your heart against your chest reaches an unbearable peak.

Again, he doesn't answer your pleading offer. He doesn't have the chance, for Lucilius comes to fetch him and you can do nothing but watch their retreating backs in the lonely halls of the lab.

The numbing heat grips you once more, and you curse yourself softly.

Why do your thoughts wander from your nature? A tool serves a basic function, yet you struggle to so much as stay focused. Even now, your mind races with an incomprehensible jumble of various impressions, at the heart of which lies your foremost desire to guard that which Lucifer loves--

. . . Loves?

You are a primal. A primal is born to be used. To be a tool. You, a primal, do not possess the qualifications to name a mortal concept like love--but you wonder.

What is love?

Surely it is what Lucifer feels toward the skies that surround and oversee the lab, the way his expression softens into one of serenity whenever he relays his knowledge of the beautiful world to you. His words during those moments would be colored with an undeniable hint of pride and fondness, instilling within you a pleasant warmth.

But why?

You have no business fielding these thoughts, yet they crash down on you in an endless stream like a sickening mantra. Your mind is diseased by a disturbing yearning for what you cannot and should not have.

To be useful. To be helpful. To protect that which makes Lucifer happy.

What makes Lucifer happy is the skies. They bring him joy, and he benevolently shares that joy with you while you take.

And take.

And take.

In a horrific realization, all you do is take.

It is the master who uses the tool. A tool has no right using its master the way you have been in your egregious ignorance.

Yet Lucifer continues to stay his hands.

Is something wrong with you? Are you unfit to serve as you are now? Do your unnatural thoughts bury an unacceptable truth?

Perhaps you are defective.

Your chest tightens and your breaths come in shallow, muted gasps. Somehow, without conscious output from your frazzled mind, your legs have carried you to a solitary corner of the lab where no one will find you for the immediate future. You lean against the aging pillar behind you and narrow your eyes, attempting to concentrate. The landscape of your mind is obscured by a thick fog, fixated on a single detail.

Are you defective?

Is the irrefutable truth that you are unable to do even one thing for Lucifer, your creator and beloved Supreme Primarch? After all, what can you offer that the others already don't?

Nothing comes to mind.

You have nothing of value to offer.

Then the fog shifts, and your thoughts gather in frenetic alarm to squash the doubt before it takes further root. In spite of everything, you want to help. You wrap your arms around yourself, realizing that you are trembling.

Pathetically, you still find yourself clinging to the hope that, one day, Lucifer will come around and use you. After all, why would he keep you around if not? The Astrals would have dismantled you by now if there was no intention of rewarding your unworthy existence with a purpose. Yes--someday, Lucifer will use you; you need only muster up the courage and gall to ask again, in the hopes that he hasn't simply forgotten that you are a primal after so many long days of tolerating your idle existence.

You continue to hold yourself long after you lose feeling in your body as the numbness devours you. It doesn't matter. Your thought takes precedence.

One day, he'll ask something of you and you will do your utmost best to provide.

 

That day never comes.


End file.
